


Like you never lost a war

by Boudoir_Writer



Series: Like toothache [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Harrington, Car Sex, Come Eating, Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Control, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Spanking, Steve Harrington Is a Mess, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:46:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudoir_Writer/pseuds/Boudoir_Writer
Summary: Steve suspects that’s what Billy gets out of this: showing King Steve just how far he’s fallen.What Steve can’t figure out, is what he gets out of this. Besides hating himself in ways he didn’t think possible, that is.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Like toothache [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927582
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	Like you never lost a war

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, I don’t know where this came from tbh. I was trying to write a sequel to ‘So messed up’ and Steve-Harrington-is-a-(hot)-mess sort of took over. Ops. I’ve been tinkering with it for weeks and decided it’s time to let it go or I’ll never move on. 
> 
> Just to be clear this is NOT the sequel to SMU - that will come - BUT. Might have a sequel sketched out for this - or two. Depends on what you guys think? 
> 
> Unbetaed (sorry! Point out any mistakes, please. Or better yet, be my beta.)
> 
> See notes at the end for triggers and the likes.
> 
> Title: Arctic Monkeys, Crying Lightning

“Come on, princess. Ain’t got all day.” Billy leers, pumps his dick once, twice, lets go. It slaps against his abs, leaving a smear of precome. It glistens in the minimal light in the Camaro, makes Steve salivate.

“Fuck off,” he huffs, instead. “‘M not done.”

Billy laughs, that unhinged cackle of his, and reaches out to rub at the tip of Steve’s dick. He presses at the slit, blunt nail scraping at the sensitive flesh. Steve bucks under the touch, but doesn’t try to pull away. He tells himself it’s because there’s nowhere to go inside the Camaro, because resistance would only incite Billy to do worse. Red flag to a bull, really. Steve tells himself so many things these days.

“I say you are,” Billy insists, wipes his wet fingers on Steve’s tongue when he opens his mouth to protest. Steve tastes anger and himself, and Billy underneath that. Nicotine and salt and somehow, inexplicably, something like sunshine, something he can’t get enough of in this bleak Indiana winter. That must be why he keeps coming back to this. Dumb dog on a leash.

He rolls his eyes at Billy’s remark, but time’s up, he knows. He wrenches his fingers free from where they are buried deep in himself, slick with lube. He’s not as stretched as he should be, but it’s all the prep he’ll get: Billy is never patient enough to let him properly open himself up. Steve suspects it’s because he likes him breathless and pliant for those first few moments, until he adjusts to the burn, the sudden stretch, to the girth of Billy’s dick. The inevitability of it, really.

He bets Billy likes even more the way Steve will be wincing the next day, going by the knowing smirks he gets when they cross paths between classes.

“Come on,” Billy urges, that mad glint in his eyes. He pats a denim clad thigh with one hand, strokes his dick with the other, slick with more pre and now lube. Small mercies. “Come and sit on your throne, _King Steve_.”

Steve scoffs, but moves to manoeuvre in the tight space, humiliation and anger simmering in his guts, thick and heady. He’s naked from the waist down. He found out the first time he rode Billy in the Camaro that there’s no way Steve can keep his trousers on and straddle Billy. Pale ass on display, makes Steve all self-conscious, his face heat with shame, and of course Billy know. He threatened to push Steve out of the car once, bare assed, Billy’s come dripping still down his thighs, leave him there to find his way home. “Pretty boy like you, I’m sure you’ll find someone to give you a ride,” he had said, that spiteful glint in his eyes, staring at Steve until Steve bent his head, bent to his will and licked his own cooling come off the dashboard choking on the taste, on tears, on why why _why_ was his stupid dick getting hard again. Billy watched, mouth set like a cut on his face, pleased as fuck. “You missed a spot,” he directed, bored, and Steve cleaned that up too.

Steve suspects that’s what Billy gets out of this: showing King Steve just how far he’s fallen.  
What Steve can’t figure out, is what he gets out of this. Besides hating himself in ways he didn’t think possible, that is.

He straddles Billy’s thighs and lines up. Billy’s dick is hot and slick in his hand, familiar in a way that fills Steve with dread. The head pops in easily enough. Steve pauses, prepares for the stretch, but Billy beats him to it, like in all things. Grabs his ass, fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises and pulls him down as he punches up with his hips, hard, once, twice, burrows himself into tender flesh, like a splinter, a regret. He leaves Steve gasping for breath, like that time at the quarry, when Tommy held his head down and down and _down_ and Steve had to punch him in the balls to get him to let go. He apologised after. Steve didn’t.

“Asshole,” he grits out in between shallow breaths and earns himself a chuckle and a mean swat to his ass.

“Told you, princess, I ain’t got all day. Move.” Billy makes his point with another precise swap and Steve bites back a retort - not a sob, definitely not a sob - digs his fingers into the meat of Billy’s shoulders and starts rocking his hips. It’s too much, too soon. It’s degrading and wrong. It shouldn’t feel so fucking good.

“Yeah, just like that,” Billy says. There’s a smile in his words and a challenge in his eyes as he stares Steve down and says: “ _Slut_.”

Steve could swear his face swells with rage, his eyes about to pop out. Doesn’t stop him from grinding on Billy’s cock like a two dollar whore, though, doesn’t stop his stupid cock from dribbling precome all over Billy’s abs.

“Fuck you,” he spits.

“That’s the plan.” Billy sniggers, fingers clawing at Steve’s ass, at the small of his back, urging him to go faster, take him deeper. Each snap of his hips brings Steve closer to tears, to coming.

Billy knows. He always knows, and he wraps a hand around Steve’s cock, tugs once, twice, then grips hard at the base and squeezes, chokes off the rising tide.

Steve groans and digs his fingers harder into Billy’s shoulders, blunt nails nicking the skin. It’s all he can do to stop himself from reaching down, smacking Billy’s hand away and getting himself off. He tried once and ended up with his wrists held behind his back, Billy keeping him on his cock, on edge until Steve was sure his heart would give out. He didn't dare trying again.

“Wanna come?” Steve wanted to come last year, but he knows better than antagonise Billy now. He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood and nods as he keeps pumping his hips, the head of Billy’s cock scraping at his prostate with each punishing thrust. It’s not enough, not with Billy’s fingers tight at the base of his dick.

“Say please.”

“Christ, you’re such a dick,” he blurts. Fuck. Billy chuckles. Then it’s another squeeze, another nail in the coffin of his wobbling resolve, his tattered dignity.

“Hate you,” he groans because he does, oh, he does. “Hate you so fucking much -”

(Hates himself more, though, this snivelling, pathetic, useless, dumb, dumb, dumb -)

Billy gives him that raised-eyebrow look, blue blue blue and gold, pokes his tongue out of his lips. “Sure you do, babydoll.”

“Shut up,” Steve snaps, “Just shut -“ he gasps and slams a hand against the roof of the Camaro to steady himself when Billy bucks up, punches into his prostate just right, makes him see fucking constellations.

“You were saying?”

“Please.” It bubbles out of him, melts through his chest and throat like battery acid. “Billy, _please_.”

Billy hums and finally, _finally_ lets go of Steve’s dripping dick, grabs his hips instead and fucks him harder, deeper.

“Come on then,” he urges, voice is suddenly different, hands too, warm and rough, soothing, grounding. “Come.”

And he does, untouched, always untouched. He suspects that Billy is trying to make a point, like Steve only needs a good hard dicking to get off, but Steve’s too far gone by then to protest. He comes so hard that he blacks out for a moment, world fading at the edges. He comes back to white noise and the slap slap slap of Billy chasing his own pleasure, until he stills with a grunt, spills.

A blissful moment of quiet. Maybe an eternity. Steve is not sure.

“All right?” Billy mumbles, nuzzling Steve’s sweat slick throat.

Steve can never figure out what Billy wants to know, why does he even asks, so he shrugs it off. By then his thighs are cramping and pushing off Billy’s lap requires all of his concentration, some cursing and hissing.

After that it’s practiced routine. He slips on his briefs. They’ll be soaked by the time he gets home, but at least he won’t leak all over the seat. Billy might get ideas then, might tell him to lick it up - and Steve would, wouldn’t he? His spent dick gives a telltale twitch at the thought, his stomach drops and Steve does what he does best and does _not_ think about it.

He puts on his jeans, his shoes.

Billy lights up a cigarette, Steve snatches it off his lips.

“Thought you’d quit,” he grumbles, lights another.

Steve shrugs, blows the smoke outside the window, watches it swirl away, wishes he could follow.

“Thought I had too.”

**Author's Note:**

> A smidge of dub-con/reluctance because Steve likes some things but doesn’t like that he likes them (does this even make sense?). Billy can’t read Steve’s mind but he’s only too happy to enable.  
> If I missed any tags do let me know.


End file.
